


Space Among the Clouds

by monanotlisa



Category: Fringe
Genre: Bisexuality, Blow Jobs, Character Study, Crossdressing, Dom/sub, M/M, Plot What Plot, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-15
Updated: 2011-11-15
Packaged: 2017-10-26 03:15:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/278048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monanotlisa/pseuds/monanotlisa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It <i>does</i> come to a head on a Tuesday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Space Among the Clouds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rainer76](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainer76/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Little Black Dress](https://archiveofourown.org/works/277761) by [rainer76](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainer76/pseuds/rainer76). 



  


Peter loves dresses.

He loves the material they tend to be fashioned from, loves how the fabric feels under his hands when he hitches it up a thigh, a hip. He loves their look: how dresses hug every curve and plane on a body. He loves what they stand for too -- for that choice, knowing or not, to present a feminine side. Not that Peter in any way relies on actual femininity.

He'd be hard-pressed for that right now, anyway, with Lincoln sprawling, spread out like a feast on his couch with his mouth half-open and eyes too, shadowed by those absurdly long lashes. If Lincoln fully looked at Peter now, their color would almost but not quite match the dress he wears: a blue that reminds Peter of cornflowers and skies just before the rain. Short though, its hem barely covering anything, back when Lincoln sauntered -- yes, _sauntered_ \-- in. Plus Lincoln hadn't bothered to tuck or tape, probably doesn't even know how. Now that Lincoln's lying on his back and the dress is hitched up around his waist, though, it doesn't matter much anymore.

Peter gladly settles for being hard.

So he runs a tongue along the length of Lincoln's cock, proud where Lincoln himself is prostrate. The guy's gasp is quiet, but it's there, as is the hand curled around his shoulder -- seeking, pleading. Peter knows he can be a contrary bastard, but not here and now. Where he smiles and closes his lips gently around the head. It's a cliché, but some of those exist for a reason, and that's impossibly soft skin, a touch of slightly bitter taste of musk on his tongue. More of it when Peter hollows his cheeks, slowly, pseudo-experimentally.

"Please," Lincoln whispers, and that too is a classic, but Peter likes it, likes him for saying it. Peter is trapped between worlds, but between these legs he has a measure of power that feels, for the moment, infinite. Peter runs one hand up and down Lincoln's thigh, wiry hair and steely-strong muscle, and the latter is so familiar he's thrown for a moment, grounded only by letting the index finger of his other hand run a circle around the stretched skin of Lincoln's scrotum, cup their fragile warm weight. His own balls throw back an echo, pleasure that never quite touches upon pain.

Peter bends down to his task, and the choked sounds he draws from Lincoln's lips send sparks of heat across his nerves, resounding. He's an auditory guy, often as he's heard from others that clearly he likes to hear himself talk. It's true that Peter doesn't mind speaking, or that he's good at it; it's just equally true that he likes to listen and watch and perceive, safe behind that verbal screen.

Here, he doesn't even have to talk (although he does have to use his mouth).

  


  



End file.
